


TAGS

by thoughtsdemise



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: M/M, Mech/Mech, Pet Play, Slight Field Play, Sticky Sexual Interfacing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-20
Updated: 2016-06-20
Packaged: 2018-07-16 03:45:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7250659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thoughtsdemise/pseuds/thoughtsdemise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some light pet play with Drift and Ratchet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	TAGS

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I saw a drawing that mapelie posted, and she graciously granted me permission to write this. To note the use of the word “supreme” stands in for “master” and “favored love” stands in for “pet” as a personal choice.

Drift sighs and leans against the closed door of his hab suite.  His plating rattling and field a swirling mass of negative emotions.  He shutters his optics and tries to center himself.  His digits slowly knead at his thigh as a wonderful scent makes itself known to his olfactory sensors.  He smirks a bit but still keep his optical shutters down.

He draws his hands slowly up his frame.  Digits spread wide as they splay along his abdominal armor.  Drift trembles, stroking his own belly with a relaxing sigh escaping from his vents.  The strong and familia scent fueling his fantasy without a visual or auditory cue.  Whimpering a tiny bit, Drift draws his digits away from his belly.

His hands slide over his chest.  They sneak into the upper edge of armor, pressing in.  A small piece folds away to reveal a collar and tags.  Drift plays with the tag, running his thumb over his supreme’s glyph etched there.  His other hand steadies himself as he finally sags against the door.  The last of the stress leaving his frame and evaporating from his field as pleasure and comfort curl and slide happily around each other.

Drift opens his optics to look at his supreme who was napping on the berth.  Drift whines and wiggles his aft as he sees the new emerald leather collar in Ratchet’s hand.  He straightens and takes a step toward the berth, whining louder this time.

Ratchet only murmurs and shifts in his sleep.  Drift’s lower lip sticks out in a pout, but he shakes his rear end again.  If he had had his ears attached they would have been perked with the mischief now coiling through his field.

Drift drops down to his hands and knees, rear held high as he deftly stalks his supreme.  He moves nearly soundless to the berth.  His digits pawing at the lower edge of the berth.  Another “hey pay attention to me!” whine escapes his vocalizer.

When he gets no response from Ratchet, he peeks his optics over the edge of the berth.  He ducks back down when he sees a red hand near the edge.  Drift lifts his helm against after a moment, optics focusing on Ratchet’s face.  The medic’s field is a tantalizing soft caress against his.  Drift wiggles his aft again, wishing for his tail.  But he indulges in the feeling of warmth and comfort and protection emanating from Ratchet’s field into his.

Ratchet remains asleep.  Drift tentatively noses one red digit.  He watches keenly as his supreme murmurs and rolls over on his side.  Drift huffs a vent of frustration.  A sly smile crawls its way over Drift’s lips a moment later when he spies Ratchet’s exposed neck cables.  A deep thrum runs through Drift’s frame from his engine, and he swiftly joins his supreme on the berth.

Drift fusses a bit to get settled before bunting his helm against Ratchet’s shoulder.  A mumbled complaint is Ratchet’s only reaction.  Drift smiles softly before rubbing his cheek affectionately against Ratchet’s shoulder.  He shifts to lay comfortably behind Ratchet.  He nuzzles his nasal ridge against the back of Ratchet’s helm before moving to mouth over neck cables.  His glossa gliding over Ratchet’s neck soon after.

He hears and feels his supreme shift.  He runs his glossa under Ratchet’s chin guard, his digits feathering against Ratchet’s waste.  Drift’s engine turns in pleased rumbles as his field playfully caresses thru Ratchet’s.  Drift lays fully on his side to press into Ratchet’s back.  His larger frame spooning Ratchet’s.  Still he licks a delicate line over Ratchet’s neck, mouthing periodically.  He chuckles when he finally draws a gasp from his supreme.

“Favored love,” Ratchet gasps and shifts to turn more toward Drift.  

Drift continues to lick at Ratchet’s neck cables.  He drapes himself over the upper half of Ratchet’s chest and wiggles happily when Ratchet’s hand cups the back of his helm and the medic’s dextrous digits rub circles there.

“Are you,” Ratchet gasps a vent, “being naughty?”

Drift lifts himself when he feels Ratchet try to roll on his back.  He settles on his supreme’s chest, wiggling as he feels Ratchet’s digits feather against his sides.  He arches and moans when Ratchet chuckles beneath him.

“S-s-supreme!”

Drift’s optics widen when he feels thighs part so he can settle between them.  Any surprised ventilations turn quickly into pleased moans when Ratchet shifts his hips upward to rub against Drift’s closed spike plate.  He presses forward into the slow rolling grind of Ratchet’s hips.  Thick white thighs rub and chase burrs of static through Drift’s.  The low thrum of a sleepy system answers the high throttle in Drift’s engine.  Drift leans forward to lay his larger frame over Ratchet’s.  His spike plate drawing open as his spike fully pressurizes.  He feels Ratchet’s pleased murmurs against his cheek as he rubs his cable against the still covered valve.

“Mmm, favored love.”

Drift whines when he feels Ratchet push on his chest.  He clutches his supreme tight but eventually obeys and lifts himself away from the warm frame he wants to rub his scent onto.  He cannot keep the rolling growl of pride from his vocalizer as his optics widen and then narrow to see his supreme in such a state below him.  He tracks the condensation running in tiny rivet lines over red and white plating.  The light in his optics flare as he watches his medic smile up at him.

“You are definitely being naughty.”  Drift leans forward to allow Ratchet to rub digits against his cheek.  “But I will forgive you, favored love.”

Drift lowers his helm at Ratchet’s urging and kisses his supreme.  Lips part and glossa slip past and against each other.  Drift’s engine hitches to a higher turn in answer to the low thrum of Ratchet’s.  Their fields dance and pull at each other.

Black digits settle on red hips as a valve cover irising open reaches Drift’s audios even over the near roar of both of turning engines.  Drift shifts his own hips to rub the tip of his spike against the plush entrance to Ratchet’s valve.  His optics tracking his supreme’s reaction.  Taking in how the medic rolls his helm back and a mouth opens in a pleased perfect o.  Drift bites his own lip and narrows his optics.  His systems screaming at him to thrust forward.  He shivers but is able to slide his cord through the gathering lubricants at the entrance of Ratchet’s valve.

Only when he feels thick thighs pressing against the back of his commandingly does Drift push the head of his spike past the plush entrance.  His optics remain avidly tracking Ratchet’s face and shuttered optics.  He slowly seats himself deep within his medic, his supreme.  Drift’s optical shutters finally slide shut as Ratchet’s hands grasp his shoulders to pull him forward.  Mouths seal over each other as frames rock together in deep, shallow thrusts.

“You--ah! mmm,” Ratchet arches his hips and circles them as best as he can.  “You are done with your shifts?”

Drift chuckles and shifts himself up to tips of his peds so he can bare down into Ratchet.  “Are you going to off shift, supreme?” he teases, pleased when that earns him a low warning growl between gasps and wordless pleas.  He digs his digits into Ratchet to steady circling red hips.  “Mmm yeah.”

Drift’s rolls his hips and holds himself there as Ratchet pulls at Drift’s shoulders and chest, clutching desperately.  Drift continues to keep the thrusts shallow and deep also gentle.  In a few cycles, Drift figures his supreme will finally be ready to order him to truly thrust, but until then...Drift rubs his digits against red plating and sighs happily at the gasping wordless pleas from Ratchet.  Drift was going to enjoy playing with his supreme and pushing him to the edge of his sanity.


End file.
